


This is What Beautiful Disasters are Made Of

by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Humor, M/M, More Humor Than Smut Let's Be Honest, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22742728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels/pseuds/letmetellyouaboutmyfeels
Summary: In which their first time together goes about as smoothly as sandpaper.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 12
Kudos: 230





	This is What Beautiful Disasters are Made Of

Richie would like to say that the first time he and Eddie have sex is amazing.

And it is amazing, don’t get him wrong. But _amazing_ means, well, _to amaze_. To astound. Amazing suggests that nothing went wrong, that it was flawless and fantastical, that insane orgasms were had by all, and that if someone had been filming, it would be up for an award at whatever annual award shows the porn industry had (he knows that they have them, just not what they’re called—he’s also pretty sure the ceremony’s held in Las Vegas).

Their first time having sex is not something that would amaze anyone.

It’s messy, and a bit insane, and would probably put the rest of their friends off their breakfast if they had witnessed any of it, and it’s the best goddamn sex he’s ever had.

Richie’s not even sure, exactly, what started it. The thing is—the thing _is_ —he’s been trying to get into Eddie’s pants for six months. But it’s rather hard to have sex with someone when they’re recovering from nearly dying, and then they’re in the middle of a divorce, and oh, yeah, he kind of forgot? To tell Eddie he’s in love with him?

Stan’s been judging him for it. Bill’s also been judging him, but Bill doesn’t get to judge anyone for their romantic decisions ever. Mike and Bev and Ben are far too nice to judge—they’re trying to be patient and understanding to various degrees of success—but Stan is happily, wonderfully married to the love of his life, so he gets to judge, and he judges just as hard now at forty as he did at age thirteen.

He’s pretty sure Stan could turn judging into an Olympic sport.

So in spite of several… several aborted efforts, he hadn’t quite managed to convey the whole _hopelessly in love with you since we were eleven_ thing. He just didn’t want to ruin things! He didn’t want to be like Myra or Mrs. K, smothering Eddie with their love. And if Eddie didn’t feel the same way, he hadn't wanted to make things awkward between them. He didn’t want to destroy their friendship, destroy this safe place, because Eddie did feel safe with him—Richie might be a self-loathing idiot but he at least recognizes that much—and he just couldn’t risk taking that away from Eddie.

Until tonight.

Because tonight—tonight they’re in LA, in Richie’s apartment where Eddie just upped and moved in without even asking Richie’s permission (not that Richie wanted to stop him)—and by the way, he completely renovated Richie’s place while he was at it. Richie never really put much thought into his place. He was on the road a lot, doing gigs, and it wasn’t like he had anyone he could bring home with him. That’s kind of what happens when you forget the person you’ve been in love with for over twenty-seven years but you can’t forget the feeling that everyone else is wrong, that someone is missing, and so you can’t ever connect with anybody.

So he hasn’t really done anything with his place, he’s got barely any furniture, and of course Eddie took one fucking look at it and was like, “Nuh-uh, no way,” and spent hours shopping for the right furniture and the right paint colors and then spent a weekend scrubbing the place spotless and turning this from a place where someone just existed into a home. His living room is now a cheery ‘Oceanside Pink’ while his bedroom is ‘Lagoon’ and his kitchen is ‘French Countryside’. He’s got a couch so comfortable he routinely falls asleep on it. His television is actually installed into the wall now, and he surreptitiously cleans whenever Eddie’s out so that the place stays clean and up to Eddie’s standards.

It’s really fucking nice, to be honest. Even if he and Eddie get into an argument about the dishes at least once a week.

The point is—because he does have a point, here—the point is, they’re in their home. _Their_ home. Their _home_. And it’s a slightly chilly night in LA (because it does get a bit chilly at night, in the winter) and they were grabbing their dinner because the delivery services have been super disappointing lately and Richie takes his ramen _extremely_ seriously, and when they got back to the apartment they were stuck in the elevator with one of their neighbors who lives on another floor and he had been—well—

Richie doesn’t like to judge, y’know? You never know when someone’s flirting with you, right? Men are always assuming women are flirting with them when the women are just being decent fucking human beings who know how to be nice. But the look that guy had been giving Eddie? The way he’d stepped in just a liiiiittle too close with that big smile? The way his voice had dipped down a bit while saying, _well, if you’re into running, you could always join me in the mornings_ …

Yeah the guy was fucking flirting.

And Richie’s not—okay so he’s _jealous_ , but he’s not gonna do anything about it, that’s Eddie’s choice, not his, it’s more that—he just mentioned, casually, afterwards, “You know he was flirting with you, right?” as they rode up the last two floors to their apartment.

And Eddie had stared at him and said, “Uh, was he?”

And Richie had said, “Yeah, dude, it was pretty fucking obvious.”

And Eddie had muttered something about Richie not knowing obvious if it hit him like a sack of bricks to the face, and so Richie had asked what the fuck _that_ was supposed to mean, and after a quick detour into recounting the Best Hits of the 80s: Richie n’ Eddie’s Most Timeless Arguments, Eddie had snapped, “You fucking moron, I _moved in with you_ , how much more obvious was I gonna get!?”

This is the part where it gets blurry.

Richie’s pretty sure he said something extremely embarrassing like, “I’m so in love with you I’d marry you tomorrow if Bev wouldn’t kill me for not letting her design our suits.” He’s also pretty sure he started the kiss (Eddie claims _he_ started the kiss, which is a lie, Eddie is a Lying Liar Who Lies).

How they get from the elevator inside the apartment is a complete blacked-out spot in his otherwise fairly good memory.

Well, a good memory if you discount the magical twenty-seven-year amnesia.

The first thing that Richie really notices, other than the fact that they’re now somehow inside, pressed up against the door, and the door handle is digging into his lower back and it kind of hurts, is that Eddie is a very determined kisser. Like, you’d think it was the end of the world kind of kissing. And Richie’s all for that, because he literally cannot remember the last time he was this goddamn desperate for someone. But he also kind of wants to (don’t laugh) savor this a bit? Y’know, really sear each moment into his brain?

So he pulls back, and pants, “Eds, Eds, Eds,” trying to remember the rest of the English language and failing spectacularly.

Eddie, who has been sucking what is undoubtedly a humongous fucking hickey into Richie’s neck, pulls back. He looks so irritated. His entire face is scrunched up. Richie loves him so fucking much. “What.”

“Could we not do this against a door?” Richie suggests. “Maybe on a bed? With some mood lighting?”

“Mood lighting?” Eddie squints at him. “Do you want me to scatter rose petals while I’m at it?”

“No, I want you to not bitch at me tomorrow when your back hurts, jackass.”

“You want this to be _romantic_.” Eddie looks absolutely gleeful, the fucking gremlin. Richie’s never gonna hear the fucking end of this.

“I’ve been pining for the majority of my life, cut a guy some slack.” Richie’s hands wander downwards and squeeze Eddie’s ass. It’s a really great ass, okay? He’s had to take a lot of cold showers the last six months because of that ass.

“Do you want us to go slow? Do you need me to give you a promise ring?”

“Okay.” Richie moves his hands up, wraps his arms firmly around Eddie’s waist, and lifts him, carrying him across the living room. “Bedroom.”

Eddie squawks, and flails, and that’s about when Richie’s strength fails him, and they both go crashing down onto the couch.

“I’m gonna kill you,” Eddie says into his shoulder, which is real rich coming from the guy who’s got his knee pressing down on Richie’s liver.

“You big baby, you’re fine.”

“I am not, you could’ve cracked our heads open!”

“Do you want me to kiss it better?” He makes kissy noises at Eddie, who looks thoroughly disgusted and furious for a moment before yanking Richie back in and kissing him.

They’re a total tangle of limbs, furiously making out like they’re teenagers and Mrs. K is going to walk into the room any minute so they have to get in as much groping and rutting as they can. Somewhere, Richie’s sure, Stan just had a stroke and doesn’t know why. This is the farthest thing from sexy or elegant or amazing and yet it’s also the best fucking thing and Richie feels so goddamn hard you could probably ask him to build an IKEA bookcase with his dick and he’d manage it just fine.

He’s fascinated with, among other things, the curve of Eddie’s throat and jaw. The way Eddie’s hair curls as he sweats. The soft secret spot behind Eddie’s ear. It’s all the things he wanted to explore when he was thirteen but couldn’t, because he was too scared, because it wasn’t allowed. Back then he hadn’t been sure exactly what he wanted, other than just touching, and being touched back. Twining together like snakes. But now he does know, and oh boy, does he ever have _plans_.

Eddie, thank fuck, seems just as interested in this whole thing. Richie’s aware that he’s soft in the middle and gangly all over and kind of forgets that vegetables exist and his hair’s a mess, and that while his face grew into his nose, the rest of him sure didn’t get the memo. He’s nothing like Eddie, who’s compact and firm and trim from eating healthy and jogging everywhere now that he knows he doesn’t actually have asthma.

But Eddie’s sucking a very large, like, 'drunken frat boy sex' large, hickey into the side of Richie’s neck and rutting up against him, so clearly, Eddie’s got no problem with Richie’s less-than-model-perfect physique. Which is—comforting, in a way that Richie didn’t expect.

“Hey, hey, uh, should we—Eds—” Eddie’s not correcting him on the nickname, which is kind of making his heart do somersaults, and Richie’s not sure hearts are supposed to be able to do that. “—should we talk about this?”

Eddie pushes up and stares at him like Richie just suggested they pack up and move to Alaska. “Talk about what? I’ve been in love with you for my whole fucking stupid life, and I’d really like your dick in me sometime tonight, so unless you’ve got, like, something on your mind that’ll ruin that, could we get back to making out now?”

Richie’s jaw just about unhinges from how far it drops. “You too?”

Eddie squints at him. “Is that to the in love with you thing or to the dick-in-ass thing because we can take turns but I call first dibs.”

“…the in love with you thing, jackass.” He couldn’t give less of a flying fuck what position Eddie prefers.

Eddie’s face goes soft. “Well. Yeah. It was, um, it wasn’t the first thing I remembered, but when we all got drunk—I looked at you and I was just—it pissed me off, actually. How in love with you I felt and realizing what I’d lost. What we… could’ve had.”

Richie feels like a puddle of goo. He reaches up, his hand finding Eddie’s cheek, the one with the scar on it, and strokes his thumb over the thin white line. “At least we aren’t in our seventies, right?”

Eddie huffs out a small laugh. “Yeah,” he says, and he sounds so fucking _fond_ that Richie almost does something to ruin the mood, like burst into tears.

So he kisses Eddie again instead.

It’s not as frantic as before, now. It’s a bit slower. He wants to learn what Eddie likes, how Eddie prefers to be kissed (which is, apparently, by trying to swallow Richie’s tongue). Hands roam more to explore, more to feel, and less like they’re going to rip each other’s clothes to pieces.

He gets his hands down Eddie’s pants, strokes softly, carefully—he’s done this with girls, before, but not with guys, never had the courage to take it this far, so he’s both an expert and an amateur—and he’s also touching Eddie’s ass _without washing his hands first_ , which is kind of a fucking miracle and he’s definitely not going to point it out to Eddie in case Eddie derails the entire fucking thing. Eddie shudders, and bites Richie’s lip so hard he fucking bleeds, and is extremely demanding. He tells Richie, _not so fast, asshole_ , and _you gotta spit on your fingers more, fucking hell, where’s the hand lotion_ , and _if you don’t put another finger in me right fucking now I will strangle you_.

Richie’s so impossibly in love with the greedy bastard.

Eddie shoves his pants down, and Richie’s shirt off, and takes Richie’s cock out, all like the items (including said cock) have personally offended him. “Okay,” he says, as Richie twists his fingers and hits something that makes Eddie’s whole body flush. “Ohhhh fuck, okay, okay, yeah, you’re gonna fuck me now.”

“I am?” Richie asks, just to be contrary. He’s three fingers deep, man, he’s definitely going to fuck Eddie. Like that’s even a question.

“Yes. And you’re going to let me be on top.”

“Bossy, bossy, bossy…” He twists his fingers and hits that spot again and Eddie whines, high in the back of his throat. Richie’s poor neglected cock twitches because that is the hottest fucking noise he’s ever heard in his miserable life.

He can’t wait to get inside Eddie, can’t wait to feel that hot slick clench all around him, can’t wait to—

Oh, shit.

“Eds, Eds, wait.” Eddie’s enthusiastically grinding against the pads of Richie’s fingers and that’s super fucking hot but also this is important. “I don’t have—I don’t have anything.”

His last box of condoms expired ages ago. He threw them out when Eddie was purging and cleaning the apartment.

Eddie gives him a _what do you take me for_ look and reaches for his discarded pants, pulling a condom out of his wallet.

“I’m sorry,” Richie splutters. “Were you planning this!?”

“I wanted to be prepared,” Eddie replies, ripping open the condom packet and rolling the condom onto Richie’s cock. He strokes it a few times, then squeezes the base, and Richie has a brief flirtation with blacking out because holy _fuck_. “In case you finally came to your senses while we were in the middle of a restaurant or something.”

“Eds, shit, you sly little fucker. Ready to have a quickie in a restaurant bathroom. Who are you and what have you done with my cute little hypochondriac?”

“Former hypochondriac,” Eddie snarks, and he pulls up and away, Richie’s fingers leaving him with a wet squelch that has Richie’s heart tap-dancing. “Try not to come right away, okay?”

“Geez, Eds, way to make a guy feel oh _holy Jesus motherfuck—_ ”

What kind of sadistic bastard just sinks down on a guy’s cock all at once!? Who does that? Is Eddie trying to murder him in the most creative way possible?

It really does take a lot of harsh breathing and a lot of thinking about demonic dogs and giant spider clowns to keep from blowing his load. Eddie just watches him, smirking, because Eddie is an evil, evil man.

“I hate you,” Richie wheezes. He’s gonna be the one needing a goddamn inhaler by the end of this.

Eddie shifts a bit, like he’s looking for something, his face screwed up in concentration. “Mm, yeah, right back atcha—ohhh yeah.” He clearly finds whatever he’s looking for, and then the little shit pushes up and slides back down, _clenching_.

Richie would like to apply for sainthood immediately, seeing a it’s a miracle he doesn’t lose it.

Eddie’s pace is punishing, intense, and Richie is really glad he’s on the bottom because (and he will die before admitting this) he could definitely not keep that up if Eddie had asked him to be on top. Plus, this way he can see his cock disappearing into the hot clench of Eddie’s body, and it’s possibly the hottest thing he’s ever seen. He could die right now and he would be one thousand percent happy.

He doesn’t want to be an entirely passive participant, though, hot as it is to watch this, so he sits up (wow, they are really lucky he doesn’t send them falling off the damn couch) and sets his mouth to Eddie’s throat, his hand to Eddie’s cock.

Eddie whines, like all the air’s punched out of him, and Richie grins, nips at the flushed, sweaty skin against his lips. “Fuck, yeah, Eds.” He might not be too well-versed in the nuances of gay sex (being in the closet will do that to you) but he has his own cock, and he knows what he likes, so he just has to apply it to Eddie.

The angle’s weird at first, but he knows how to play with the foreskin, how to tease the head, rub his thumb up underneath, and twist his wrist on the upstroke. After a minute he gets out a rhythm that has Eddie swearing up and down in ways Richie hadn’t even _thought_ of. He never thought he’d be so pleased to be called a smug cock waffle.

“What will the neighbors think?” he asks, dangerously close to orgasm and feeling high as a fucking kite even though his body’s starting to burn from the exertion (he needs to work out more, as in, for once in his life). “Hearing all these lovely things you’re saying?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Eddie says.

“That’s what you’re doing.”

Eddie kisses him, which is the best way to shut them both up and digs his nails savagely into Richie’s shoulders as he comes.

Which, thank fuck, Richie didn’t know how much longer he was gonna be able to hold out on that.

Eddie’s literally still shaking and clawing Richie’s back like he’s a rabid squirrel when Richie comes, his body seizing up like he’s allergic to peanuts and just ate a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, and he doubts it’s at all sexy, but Eddie makes this little groaning noise like he’s _pleased_ , like he _likes_ that Richie just came inside of him (condom excepted).

And then Richie goes to roll them, to gently deposit Eddie on the other side of the bed—only it’s not a bed, it’s a couch, and they end up on the floor.

“The moment I can walk again,” Eddie says mildly, “I’m going to kill you.”

“You can kill me from here,” Richie points out.

Eddie, however, is stroking Richie’s hair and has this blissed-out look on his face that he’s never seen before—and he’s made quite a case study of Eddie’s facial expressions. “Nah. If you die, who’s gonna pay the bills?”

He says this like he doesn’t contribute half of their finances. The idiot. Richie loves him so fucking much it feels almost like there’s more of him that’s ‘loving Eddie’ than there is that’s ‘Richie’s actual personality’.

For a moment he can really only stare in wonder at the fact that Eddie Kaspbrak, the cute kid who wouldn’t ever shut up and was fiercer and braver than even he knew, is now an adult, and Richie’s allowed to love him. And, more amazing than that—Eddie loves him back.

And then he opens his dumbass mouth and says, “Y’know, this is gonna get pretty gross in a minute,” and Eddie says, “Way to ruin the afterglow, dipshit,” and Richie says, “Wait, there was an afterglow?” and they bicker through the entire clean-up process.

But then they get in the shower afterwards and Eddie washes his hair for him and Richie can trace the scar on Eddie’s torso and Eddie _smiles_ and yeah, that was kind of a disaster of a first time in some ways and he can’t exactly call it amazing in the traditional sense but—holy shit.

It’s messy and crazy and it’s still the best sex Richie’s ever had.

And then he realizes—

“Hey, Eds?”

Eddie’s wincing in sympathy at the nail marks he left on Richie’s back and Richie can see him mentally preparing to grab the salve when they get out of the shower. “Yeah?”

Richie breaks out into a grin. “We can do that any time we want.”

For a second, Eddie looks like he might punch Richie in the shoulder and say, _yeah, no shit, Sherlock_ , but then his face softens again. “Yeah, Rich.” He bumps their noses together. “Yeah, we can.”

Richie wraps an arm around Eddie, and kisses him, and he definitely punches his fist into the air in victory while he does it.


End file.
